


All That Could Be

by StormInABottle



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Drabbles, Dreams, F/M, Fleeting Moments of Happiness, How Do I Tag, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm done with life, King Alistair, Longing, Pack Feels, Poor Life Choices, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Unrequited Love, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-19 18:53:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8221328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormInABottle/pseuds/StormInABottle
Summary: So many possibilities in the course of a tumultuous life. A list of unconnected stories about Neria Surana and what might have been before and what might come to be after the fifth blight.





	1. On Sins and Dishonor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After all, honor never weighed as heavy as his gaze in her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is my first post on the site, and I hope you enjoy it. It's a bit of a rushed thing, but I did enjoy writing it (depressing as it is). It will probably get edited later but I felt compelled to post this for some reason. To be honest I don't really know what to say ^^;. Feedback is welcome and craved! Thank you for viewing this rather amateurish work.

More time, she needed more time. Tears threaten to overwhelm her and Neria closes her eyes, grinding her palms into her closed lids with anger she would never have believed herself capable of.

He lays in the bed she had ordered the others carry into the laboratory. His shallow breathing is the only noise she could hear despite the birdsong outside and the sound of Avernus’ voice droning on and on in front of her.

“Blood magic would be the only way now.”

She hears herself sealing his fate as if it was from far away, from another person. In a way it is, she is so different from the mage that swore with conviction to do anything necessary to stop the blight that she might as well have sprouted a second head. In her head Alistair's face twisted in disgust and horror, _you did what?_ His voice was angry, accusatory. The soft glow about him hardens to stone as though she had cast the spell herself. _How could you?_ He yells in her mind. _I trusted you to do right by me._

“No.” She turns suddenly, moving over to the bed. Her fingers touch his sweaty brows, smoothing the frown creasing his forehead with gentle whispers that he probably no longer understands. “He wouldn’t want that.”

Tears come to her eyes again and she squeezes his hand. He squeezes back softly. All of his strength is gone now and it was likely it would never return again. The realization makes her world spin with painful clarity. She swallows the lump in her throat and manages to find her voice from its hiding place in the dark part of her mind.

“It wouldn’t be honorable.”

The old man glances at her from across the room, pity and incredulity fighting for control on his wrinkled skin. “It’s a bit too late for talk of honor now.”

After all, the honorable thing would have been letting him go.

_The deep roads, one last battle before his strength faded, last breath taken among death of their mortal enemies. His blood shed across the stone roads, joining his brothers and sisters._

Yes, they were already both dishonorable. But try as she might she simply couldn’t let him go, couldn’t stand the thought of him dying among creatures he spent his life fighting. The hero mantle she wore had long been replaced by a cape of sin that coils thick and heavy over her shoulders. She had been unable to do the honorable thing once again. She never could, not when his life was in the balance. Even when she was young and stronger she couldn’t do it. She had done him wrong then too. That night before that final battle, she had made him save his life with his dignity and loyalty as the price.

And this time, she made his honor a sacrifice.

But the only problem is that it wasn’t even _enough_. She had dragged both of their reputation through the mud, tossed away time they could have spent together to shift heaven and Earth and abandoned all that they’ve spent the past decade building for something that eludes her until his last breath.

“It’s the only way.”

“We have more time.” She argues even as her heart denies it. She knows his body better than she knows her own and she felt it that morning after yet another sleepless, thankless night. Their time was up, she felt it in her bones and it made her hurt from the tip of her toes to the roots of her hair. “We can find another way.”

“There is no other way.” The wizened old man sighs. _You know that too._

He would hate her for it. Neria shakes her head vigorously. That was the one thing she promised him she wouldn't turn to. No no no no no. Time, she just needs more time. In her bones she knows it was finally the end and death would take him from her clutches, prying off each of her fingers with sickening delight.

“Heavens, Commander.” The old mage rolls his eyes, “It’s not like the others can talk any more then they already do.”

“I can’t.” She’s never felt so small as she does now, sitting by his side. Not in the tower, not at the landsmeet, not even facing down the archdemon atop Fort Drakon.

“Neria.” His voice is weak with pain, but it dominated her senses and became her entire world instantly. Is he actually lucid? She leans forward, running a hand through his damp dark blond locks. So many words rush to her lips but she couldn’t say any of them.

Captivated, but by guilt or by him? She couldn’t say, not with her mind a mess like this.

“It’s okay.” It isn’t and never will be. She wants to scream at him for daring to think it is. “Let me go now, it’s okay.”

But it wasn’t. She had betrayed her own beliefs for this, she had betrayed all their comrades in arms for this. She even betrayed them and their relationship for it. How could she let go after all that?

“I love you.”

Then his eyes fell shut for the last time.

“My love?” She whispers, hoping his lack of response (even during the worst days, he would at least squeeze her fingers, or smile if he heard her voice) is merely due to her lack of volume.

“Alistair.” She said his name, hoping that he would answer her call.

“Alistair.” She said it to feel the weight of it on her tongue.

“Alistair.” She said it to make herself remember.

He was gone. The finality of it was staggering. Avernus had gone quiet.

It is funny, the long battle had ended so easily, so quickly. His declaration was so simple, so mundane. She had heard it almost every day of her life, had long gotten used to the presence of him, as natural and vital as the air. The sound of those words are a part of the rhythm of her life, as regular as the setting of the sun.

It is funny how easy it was taken away, it is funny how _easily_ the world moved on.

Hilarious, truly.

There _should_ be demons walking the land. There _should_ be war. There _should_ be storms. There _should_ be people screaming. There _should_ be blood and death and fire because after all the world just ended.

The Hero of Ferelden laughs.

She laughs and laughs and laughs until her lungs hurt and tears are (finally) leaving her eyes and she puts her head against his still chest and let her dishonor drag her body down to where his soul is going.

 


	2. On Fates and Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In life or in death, for them it never actually mattered. In both their minds the belief that their meeting was not a blessed matter of chance but a mere matter of time has long become an undeniable fact.

What if.

She whispered those words, letting the possibilities curl around them. What she had meant to say was “if only”, but they left far too bitter a taste upon her tongue and she had pushed it aside. They both knew that this day was coming, and in retrospect, it wasn’t really all that bad. Even now, sprawled across the skeletal remains of some long dead dwarf's equally tarnished home, she couldn’t really bring herself to truly be angry.

Because he is right here with her.

But back to the words echoing in both their brains, her attention wavered a little and she forced it to go back to the original point.

_What if we weren’t who we are._

“I think.” Alistair says, voice low and soft to contradict the ironclad grip he has around her waist. “I already told both you and Morrigan what would happen if I remained a templar. The murder, the run in my small cloth, the works, surely entertaining but nevertheless an ugly business.”

She scoffed.

“Fine, I get that the image of me in my small cloth is no longer fascinating for you.” Even without looking at her he could tell the expression she would be wearing. Despite the deadly scowl, the upward twitch of her lips would give away her amusement.

“You can at least pretend you still love it. I for one, love you enough to pretend that you haven’t been getting- Ow!” He complained, laughing at her antics when she pokes at the open wound  on his forearm where a lucky arrow had gone clean through his armor.

“Idiot.” _I don’t need to pretend._ She didn’t need to say the words, her laugh was an answer that he understood. The neither of them never needed to pretend to be anything in each other’s presence, and that will never change, not if she had anything to do with it.

“But let’s see.” His voice turns serious as he leans his head back against the stone wall. “Had I remained a templar, I would have taken my vows, kicking and screaming.”

Neria lifts her hand and he tugs off his heavy gauntlet before covering her hand with his own. She smiles, the warmth of him seeping through her skin makes it worth the effort. He pauses.

“I would have went to the tower, nervous, miserable, entertaining seventy different escape scenarios in my head.”

“And then?”

“Then I would meet you, probably after doing something stupid, like getting lost in the library.”

“In that tiny excuse for a tower? I doubt even you could pull off a feat so silly.”

“Oh you know me, always surpassing the impossible.” Her laugh turns into a cough and he pauses. Even beneath the armor she can feel him stiffen, his fingers tighten around hers with strength she didn’t know he still had. She leans back, wishing the thick metal separating her skin from his would just disappear.

“And then?”

“Then? Hmm… Then I would enlist your help, acting like a fumbling fool like I usually do in presence of beautiful women.”

“And I would laugh at your jokes, wondering why such a charming and handsome man was a templar.”

“And I would find you wonderful.” He lands a kiss to the crown of her head. “So smart, so witty, so much lovelier than even my wildest dreams.”

“And then, even though it’s forbidden…” She continues, smile upon her pale face.

“Even though you don’t have a high opinion of templars…”

“Even though you are just an innocent little chantry boy…”

“Even though all you wanted to do was distance yourself and escape…”

“We would fall in love.” Her voice shook a little, and he squeezed her hand reassuringly.

“Because I was always meant to be yours.” It’s amazing how the sincerity in his voice could still send shivers up her spine. Neria closes her eyes, listening to the sound of his voice, so loving and sweet a lullaby had never existed before this moment.

“And I you.” Her whisper was spellbinding, mesmerizing, it hovers in the air, turning the silence into a song.

“Always.” He whispers to her even as her body slowly stills within his hold. Life leaves his body just a tad bit slower than it did hers and he closes his eyes, still holding her to him. How strange it is that in the end, he didn’t want to prolong life, but run to death like a man possessed. Funny how strange things turn when he’s around her. The thought makes his face split into a grin and he sighs. If only the taint would hurry, he wanted to match her step so they might cross together.

After all, they’ve faced everything in life hand in hand, it hardly made sense to quit now.


	3. On Minds and Illusions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And he understood then the temptations of a demon's whispers.

“Cullen.” Her voice sounds far away, as though he was listening to her submerged in water.

“My love?” A laugh, bubbly like water from a spring, The warm weight on his chest shifts before settling. “It’s time to wake up.”

His eyelids feel heavy, glued shut but he strains against the pressure eagerly. Hair tickles his nose and he finally manages to open his eyes and be greeted by the reward. Neria, sweet Neria with her hair loose across her shoulders and soft glow of sleep still a cloud about her face.

_Eyes closed face pale fingers cold and stiff._

A fiction far sweeter than reality.

He tugs the stray strands of dark silk teasing his nose back behind her ears and marvel at the way she smiles and lean into his touch.

All of it felt so real, so consistent with his expectations. It might as well have been, he had no basis for a comparison. After all he had never found the courage, or perhaps the lapse in judgement, that would have allowed him touch **her**.

He rolls, dragging a cute little giggle of surprise from her lips as he moves on top of her and his fingers tug her into a cubby hole made by the woolen blankets and his arms. It was so easy to maintain this contact. Despite the way her presence looms she was such a delicate little thing. There was no resistance. Why would there be? There never was a barrier between them except for his own moral scruples.

_Light gone head lolled back lips blue and icy._

Her dark hair splays across the pillow the way her fingers splay across his chest. He stares down at her, hand cupping her cheek. The blue of her eyes are three shades lighter than the sapphire charm around her neck. Her face adorned with tattoos that danced in and out on itself.

He tried to look for a flaw, some imperfection to this copy. He lifts her chin, watching the way she squints to make a face at him. There’s nothing to find. Here was the essence of Neria he had watched disappear.

The more he sees the harder it is to want to leave.

His mind moves back towards the one particular memory again before her touch pulls him away. Her fingers are soft and warm upon his cheek. Before he can stop himself he reaches up to clasp her hand in his.

So precious.

“Stay with me?”

_Heavy breath teary eyes and scarlet all over. Her fingers beg for purchase upon his armor and find none. Hoarse whispers reach his ear in desperation and fear._

_“Stay with me?”_

_“Cullen?”_

“Cullen?” Her voice snaps him out of the memory.

He wants to cry.

“It’s fine, you are here now.” She said as she strains to pull herself up enough to reach his lips without the use of her arms. The light glimmer in her eyes is just right. Why wouldn’t it be? This was created out of his mind, a betrayal of his memories just like every other has been.

“That’s right Cullen.” Her voice is the same too, smoke and silk blending seamless and somehow seductive just the way he remembers it to be. “Just stay.”

“After all,” She manages to move up until her lips touch his ear, the sensation sends a joint through him that makes it hard to hear her next words. The soft whisper stands contradictory to the power she holds in her body and over him. “This is the only place left for us. For me.”

_Life leaking out between his fingers, her breath comes in shorter, ragged and desperate._

“Please don’t make me disappear, Cullen.”

It hurts to breath. The roar of blood is so loud in his ear that her next words are completely mute to him. He fought himself, his mind crying out for the one thing that he can’t possibly allow himself. But what’s the harm? Nothing waited for him back on the other side. His convictions granted him absolutely nothing and lost him the one thing that he wanted. Was it so wrong to want? To love?

She was his, she was the Neria he knew even to the last moment. She was his from the moment they met til the moment she departed and though he had pulled the cloth so tight over his face that he didn’t see it until she was gone he always knew those things as irrefutable facts. It made him burn all over to know that he had rejected and denied himself the one thing he had wanted right until the moment it was no longer available to him.

She deserved a better him and he wants desperately to deserve her.

“Yes.” Not-Neria smiles, touches her lips to his, “Just stay, no need to think about it.”

It didn’t feel right.

He knows why, he just doesn’t want to admit it.

“This is the only way.”

He never even touched her without the metal of his gloves to separate them. Not even in those last moments.

“All that time running away, Cullen.”

Even as she slipped away from him, he was too afraid to do any more than whisper a few soothing, polite words.

“We can make up for that here.”

It was only a year, but it felt far longer. In between longing and dread he had lived an eternity in her gaze.

“I love you.”

She did.

“That makes this harder.”

Not-Neria frowns, nails sinking into his back as though she was trying to anchor him there.

“I love you.” He hears them leave his lips, the words that he could never say to her finally escaping the confines of his mind like a sapling from the ground. It’s an unforgivable cowardice to have ran so long away from his feelings only to confess them to a mere illusion, a corruption of her being.

As if the illusion senses that it lost him, it changes around him. The air turns cold and utterly unforgiving. The stench of blood and death fills his nostrils. His body is heavy and weighed down with grief he can’t possibly shoulder.

“Please. Cullen please, just stay with me.”

Her face is so pale, so full of fear.

“It’s so cold without you. I don’t want to. I just-” He closes his eyes, savoring the sound of her voice as her words break his heart. He knows what he awaits him beyond the dark, useless shelter of his eyelids.

_Her eyes dimmed. Her voice babbled in panic as her fingers performed their last desperate dance across his armor. She sought warmth and solace from him, but all he could give is the cold embrace of metal, as emotionless and impersonal as death._

_“Cullen.” She was crying now, her voice growing weaker as her words stumbled over themselves. “Cullen I can’t see you. Where are you? It’s dark… Afraid- So cold. I… Once- A boy- Thoughts, feeling… That night I was… Can’t breath. I miss you. Please, love-. Never…”_

_“It’s okay.” He found himself whispering back, hoarse and taut with fear as he watched the life blood spill from her body. Maker, there was no end to the flow, no way to stem the rushing end as each pump of her heart sent her closer to death._

_He rocked back and forth, her body a small weight in his arms._

_“It’s okay, you’ll be okay, we’ll be okay.” The hopeless lies sprung from his lungs in an endless, useless stream.  
_

_It wasn't long before her breathing stopped but he can’t find it in himself to let go of her small form. The thing in his arms was cold, deprived of every vivacious beauty that made her her but he couldn’t bare letting go of the only connection he had left to someone now far out of her reach._

_We’ll be okay._

_Cullen lowers his face to the curve of her neck and opened the floodgates_

He felt rather than saw the magic fall apart around him. It was done, the illusion was gone. He slowly managed to lift his face from the floor. The illusion is gone, he repeats to himself. Yet all he could see is Neria’s closed eyes set in her impossibly pale face, her bloodless lips rapidly turning blue. It was almost as though he was still holding her with him in this damned barrier even though he knows that when they dragged him away she was left behind to rot, just another corpse, another casualty in the grand scheme of strife.

“I’m sorry.” He says to the dirty, empty ground before him.

Her smile was such a beautiful thing.

“I’m so sorry.”

He had loved this tower once, loved the way it contained her, loved the way her presence can be found frolicking in the library, flitting through the apprentice’s quarters and dancing through the halls. There was beauty in the idea of her, a graceful charm that she wore in every movement. In her smile was a benevolence that proved to him the grandness of all creation. Even mages could be good, could be kind and strong. She made him believe.

And then they destroyed her, and with her everything good about this place was gone.

He closed his eyes and prayed for his mind to forget the things his body never knew.


	4. On Escapades and Compulsions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's not sure if she's trying to remember or forget, or which one would be worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This, I don't even know what this is anymore. After reading a painfully depressing book for one of my classes, well... I broke, and this is the result. A second part shall come that helps(?) to make sense of the mess of words my emotions threw up all over the paper.

Mail arrived at skyhold this morning. He knows the routine by now. Among the mail would be a neat white envelope, normal except for the golden seal that controls the both of them. It would be brought to her room, slid underneath the door like a hushed whisper.

She would find it, shake, and turn away from the simple comfort of a room far too small for her presence.

And the puppet strings would pull her along down the twists and turns, feet stumbling without the usual grace. She would pause somewhere along the way, trembling under the weight of something uncontrollable as she sooth her wild hair and unwitting tears. She would greet a few perfect acquaintances (who cared less about her actual person than even she about them) and come to his door with nervous sweat on gathering slowly on her palms.

The sun hovers drunken over the horizon, unsure whether or not to fall.

That was his cue to expect her.

Sure enough, a few minutes after the chain of thought ends she practically flies into his office, locking the door behind her. The words he had been repeating to himself continuously rapidly evaporates. She is in her mage robes instead of the armor she normally adorn. He had come to notice that she never wore her armor when she comes to seek his company in those chaos filled hours. He argued that she wants to make the encounters easier, he wanted to think it but he knew it wasn’t true.

In her haste she sweeps the documents he had been looking over straight off the desk as she climbs on to it. He barely has time to blink before the vellum sheet in his hand is snatched away to join the rest on the floor. Her movements are so hurried that he wonders if she even saw him. He wonders if it really made a difference who was in his armor, and if she would even notice if someone else took his place.

“Neria.” A wry sense of amusement crosses his mind, covering the ugly beneath. (He had tried once, changing his appearance, to see if she would notice, she didn't)

“Shh.” She hisses out, pulling him up to kiss her.

Maker, he never thought he would see the day. Never thought that after so many twists and turns in the road he would come around the bend and find her again.

They needed to talk. He grasped at the airy words that gotten away from him and came up empty.

The way Neria’s lips moves against his is far too distracting. He moves into the sensations, letting the frenzy that took her over infect him. (Was it a bad thing their lust is more a compulsive need then a mutual connection?) He feels the heat radiate off of her like cold from ice. He knows her well, knows what to do to make her body sing. He had learned with a feverish dedication how to kiss her so she sees stars, how to touch her so she shivers and melts.

It wasn’t something she dares to realize.

Her lips leaves his as she works at his armor. He lets her fuss, taking in the graceful movement of her fingers and the gentle slope of her neck. The skin of her collarbone looks so inviting he can’t help but lean forward to kiss the spot, a soft touch that leave no marks.

They need to talk.

But then her fingers graze his neck softly and her eyes meet his over the cusp of her bangs and suddenly thinking was an impossible mission.

His armor falls to the floor with a loud crash, the sound ignored as she reached to pull his shirt off. Twisting away, she pulls her robe over her head.

He kisses her cheeks, tasting salt on his tongue.

But he was nevertheless ready (despite the ghosts lurking his mind) when she pushes him down back into his chair and move to straddle him. Bare skin meet in a sweaty greeting that stoke the fire within both of them. A single downward movement and they were connected.

Physically, not mentally, he noticed with bitterness that mellows with each small tremble in her body. Her eyes refuse to meet his, even now. Instead she closes them and throws her head back, finding a slow and steady rhythm to rock to. What scene plays behind her eyelids? He couldn't tell, though he likes to imagine (falsely) that she was thinking of them in the mage tower before things gone utterly sideways.

Was it something she’s trying to forget, or remember? (Did it matter? His mind tried to deny it even as his heart screamed its truth.)

Cullen isn’t sure. He only knows the way this familiar feeling settle in his gut to rot.

His finger wanders between them to play with her clit. The touches bring a gasp to her lips and a new eagerness to her hips.

He knows what her body likes best.

She didn’t know what he wanted the most. (The answer was her, but he didn't dare tell her, and she didn't dare realize it.)

But that was okay, wasn’t it? All will come in time.

Because he believes that eventually among the madness she would forget the half of her she left behind. Or perhaps one fine day she would look up and finally see the boy from the tower for whom she held a special smile.

“Neria.” Cullen manages to spit out her name, free hand tense on the wooden handle of his chair. Sweaty hand slippery as it tries to hold onto his question and his resolve. “I need to ask you-.”

Her face fell from the haze of lust for a brief moment and she settles neatly in his lap, grinding her hips against his the way she knew he liked. “Shh.”

“Shh.” She says again, soft whisper blooms against his skin and blisters his heart, “No words, no talk, just feel.”

His fingers reach the small of her back so he might close the distance between them.

She sighs, hands around his neck. He didn’t move, holding himself immobile in her arms. His lack of response doesn’t seem to bother her one bit.

Slick heat pulse around him, trembling in the pursuit for satisfaction. A body and mind divided. His hands move to her hips, holding her tight enough to form bruises as they moved together. She goads him on with an endless stream of sighs as he explore the soft allure of her flesh. Her hands moves everywhere across his skin, tracing a pattern that only a past flame could understand.

The thought causes his grip to tighten and he rocks against her, out of rhythm. The movements are awkward as the two of them dances around each other, one trying to mark something, other trying to escape everything (but which was which?).

“Cullen.” Her voice rings out but he all he could hear is the wistful longing, the other name that hovers on the tip of her tongue.

Time drags on in a way it shouldn’t as the session continued. All her skillful loving wasn’t enough today and he lifts her up in his arms, her weight barely a concern as he lays her across his desk.

Her dark hair falls sweetly across the fine grain of the wood. Her body is perfect, a dream he wants to indulge in unto eternity. But where was reality? He searched her, one hand on her cheek as he slams into her, to the hilt.

The mindless moans continue, droning on into infinity in the background.

“Look at me.” Cullen whispers, a harsh breath that sounds as loud as a scream. Her eyes remain closed. Cullen shifts, trying for a different angle. His hand touches her shoulder, holding her in place as he pulls out nearly all the way. He is getting close, had been close for a while now. But he couldn’t get there, and he knew why.

“Look at me.” He leans forward to hover over her face, the movement of his hips coming to an abrupt stop. "Neria. Please."

She moans with frustration that echos in his gut. His fingers moves across her lips, down to her neck where a sapphire charm carved into the semblance of a rose (she never told him why she liked the thorny things so much). She stiffens.

"Look. At. Me." He spits out each word like they were a sentence of their own. With every syllable his hips slam into hers.

Her eyes open and finally, praise the maker, finally. He was the one reflected in her gaze.

Just one more movement and he practically sings his satisfaction. Neria, her name, he taste her bitter and sweet on his tongue as he shouts her name. For a moment he flies so high that everything glows gold and perfect. And he floats without burden in the sweaty embrace of intimacy.

But every high has a come down.

He blinks to see her eyes misted over with tears for memories she cannot forget.


	5. On Greed and Pretensions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding Alistair ‘s echoes in Cullen’s movements was a punishing cocktail of pain and guilt that she thought she deserved.
> 
> He managed to convince himself a part of her was better than nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a song fic. I had been going back over through songs from one of my favorite Chinese artists (Faye Wong) and found this song by chance. I thought it was perfect for this particular situation Neria finds herself in with Cullen and Alistair. This sort of bitter and sad state of settling for something less that is unfair and painful for all of them was something I felt compelled to write, though I had absolutely no idea why.
> 
> It didn't really come out as well as I had hoped, but I wanted to put it down on paper (so to speak...). Perhaps one day I will come back to look at it, cringe, and edit as per usual.
> 
> Bu Liu (Which literally translates to Not Keeping) is a song by Faye Wong. It has such a melancholy and ethereal sound to it (like most of her music). I recommend taking a listen, even if you can't understand what she's singing. Anyway, I made a rather rough (and not too literal/direct) translation while writing this. It fits quite well, at least in my opinion.

Another letter, the same stiff formal envelope filled with a hundred or so flighty, joking words that hinted at a thousand longings and a million apologies.

What Cullen doesn’t know was that she read the letters instead of throwing them out.

Neria rubs her temples. She wanted to write back but she never did. At least she never sent anything. Carefully she folds the thick vellum back into the envelope.

_I gave you my passion, gave him my days._

The image of his face floats up in her mind like a curse. Her heart pounds as she finds her satchel, the one she never goes anywhere without, and tugs the letter in to mingle with the rest. The dried rose she carefully takes out to touch, wave of nostalgia running through her.

_I gave you my smiles, gave him my patience_

It sent her on her way to Cullen’s office, as the script demands. Yet another dance of guile, of tricking things into seeming simple while complications twisted like snakes under the skin. It was a game, one that she won so far.

Alistair pleads with her in her head. Neria tries to drown his voice with the sound of her footsteps.

_I gave you my longing, gave him my time._

This is her punishment, this sort of compulsion sending her to him in a way that will inevitably lead to some kind of disaster. But there is nothing else to be done. From the moment she first walked into his office to find some sort of distraction in the realness of his embrace they had been set up to crash.

She should be thankful she never actually uttered Alistair’s name while screaming out her ecstasy, even if she did (guiltily and inescapably) imagined him in her head.

_I gave you the photographs, gave him the calendar._

But he was ready this time.

She sensed that as she moved over the threshold into his territory.

The sun swoons, eager for rest. The door swings open to her touch, then shut. He doesn’t need to look up to see her imperceptibly reddened eyes. Instead he focuses on the velvet box in his hand, soft against his calloused fingers.

Neria opens the door and finds no papers cluttering the desk. In fact the quiet in the room, the few newly lit candles and the vase of roses on his desk suggests some deviation from their usual script. She pauses by the now locked door, suddenly being sapped of her confidence.

“Neria.” He greets her with a nod, rising from his chair. “I need to talk to you.”

“We’ve always left the talking to later.” She says, voice light and fluttery that doesn’t cover the edge beneath it. She tries to stall, to delay the inevitable. Usually if she got their clothes off fast enough he grows too drunk on her to breach the subject of their separation (or another alternative, which would be infinitely worse). But this time she could see the resolve in his eyes, the unshakable will that she once remembered in him. Even as Her fingers come up to hold his cheek she could see the way Cullen holds his breath in his chest and purpose in his mind.

And so the dreaded moment comes.

 _This isn’t working out._ She can picture it in her mind: his voice, apologetic and painfully formal, his posture awkward and unsure but all through it she would look into his eyes and find a decisiveness and sadness she didn’t see when he was nineteen.

What she didn’t expect was for him to get down on one bended knee.

“Neria Surana.” Her heart stops as he takes her hand in his.

The same scenario, it was eerie how similar they had looked. She is struck with a sense of awful deja vu. Last time she had been hiding behind a pillar as he folded his leg in defeat to bind himself to a woman he didn’t love. She wonders for the umpteenth time why she is doing this, torturing the both of them to chase a feeble resemblance to a man lost to her.

_I gave you the colors, gave him the scenery._

“Will you to me the honor of spending the rest of your life with me?”

Any other woman would have been happy. Cullen was handsome, considerate, and powerful. And by now she knew (more than anyone by now) that he is a wonderful lover and an even better man. But those were precisely the right words to completely undo her. Neria had dreaded those words not because they were horrid, but because they were far better than she deserved, and far worse than he did.

To tell the truth, she dreaded them because she know herself too weak to say no.

_I gave you the distance, gave him the silence._

It was the same breaking of her heart, though for a different reason. Last time she had cried because the one accepting wasn’t her, and this time she is crying because the one asking wasn’t him. It was all the right times with the wrong people. All of a sudden his face was in front of her and it wasn’t Cullen smiling wobbly while looking for approval in her face.

_I gave you the fireworks, gave him the holiday._

The illusion fades as she blinks. She stares down at this man, who she half loves and half fears, at the roses that looked similar to the faded one she still carry in her satchel, at the armor that at once was reminded her of him and didn’t.

_I gave you the movie ticket, gave him the seat._

In her eyes reality reflects itself, painfully imperfect.

In her mind the fantasy spins, sweet yet impossible.

She long accepted that she couldn’t have what she wanted, but she never really realized it could be this hard to settle, to kill the hope hidden in her heart of hearts.

She looks at the roses.

_I gave you the candlelight, gave him the meal._

Cullen waits. Stale moments crawl by in agony. Cullen’s smile wavers, his posture turns unsure.

What’s the use of chasing fantasies? Haven’t everyone talked her damn ears off about being realistic? If she refused to give up her reputation and his, then there simply couldn’t be anything left between them. She accepted that. Alistair. She went over each letter in her head. Love it as she might it wasn’t a name she was allowed to say anymore.

_I gave you the song, gave him the stage._

Slowly she clears her throat, not pulling away from the man in front of her (she still thought of him as a boy sometimes, nineteen and flustered). They had the same reaction to her hands. Cullen likes to place his palm against hers to marvel at the difference in size almost as much as Alistair did.

_Gave you the sound and gave him the picture._

“Yes.”

_I gave you the plot and gave him the ending._

In front of her Alistair smiles shyly. She doesn’t blink, because if she does, Alistair would disappear to be replaced by the man she just gave her life to.

_I gave you the glass slipper and gave him the midnight stroke._

 

* * *

 

The wedding dress is too tight.

She turns, trying not to pass out from the lack of air. This is a discomfort she isn’t use to. Neria frowns, she would take the heavy heat of metal plate over this any day. Holding out a hand, she turns to the mirror.

Suffocating as it may be, it did flatter her figure endlessly.

It was a small comfort that nevertheless doesn’t stop her from glaring holes into the lace around her midsection.

“Why the long face on your wedding day? If I didn’t know better I would think another blight was on the way.” His voice spins her around in a hurry. Her heart stutters through a painful dance in her chest. Neria seeks him out desperately despite the warning bells going off in her mind, the way she always does and always will.

It’s been almost two years since she last saw him. He looked the same still, except for the heavy bags under his eyes, and the frown that contradicts his cheery tone.

It is an unbreakable habit of hers to move closer to him.

“My dear Neria.” He murmurs into her ear, taking hold of her hand, a gesture far too formal for her liking yet far too intimate for the circumstances. The bride stands alone with a guest in an empty room, it would be perfectly scandalous even without the past history floating around.

He glares at the golden band around her finger resentfully.

_I gave you my heart and gave him my body._

“My lord.” She says, though her voice is far less strong than she would prefer.

“Won’t you call me by my name, Neria?” He pleads.

“And suppose I do, what then? I suppose you would also like me to leave with you?” Neria says, “Hold on to each other and ruin both of our honor for a few nights out of a year that we could scrape together?”

“Yes.” The king didn’t hesitate to answer. “I want it more than anything in the world, you know that.”

It is what she wants too, but she remembers too well his careful honor and the burden he carries that looms far bigger than both of them. Her fingers touch his face, trying to smooth over the tired expression and the worry lines etched there by far too many nights of sleepless pondering. Their dance is one that differs from her and Cullen’s dance of desperate pleadings and half filled desires. Their dance is of hidden meanings and secret words.

“Oh Alistair.” She lays a chaste kiss to his lips, her lipstick stains his skin and she rubs a finger across the chapped skin. “You know that’s something neither of us can have at this point.”

“Neria.” He looks like he would cry right there, his hold on her hand is so tight it hurt.

Or perhaps that’s simply how she wants to explain away why tears are coming to her eyes.

A fantasy, for both their sakes, he should stay only as a fantasy in her head (it's what she tells herself every lonely night).

“Will you stay and watch me walk down the aisle?” I love you, the words rearrange their meaning as she fixes his collar.

“If you wish it of me.” And I you, he says back, moving a stray strand of hair away from her forehead.

After all, she couldn’t really break his heart anymore than she already has when she sent him the invitation.

_Rather keep nothing at all, never leave any attachments._

Or so she thought.

 

* * *

 

“I do.” She hears him saying the two simple words from far away.

_If I still have misery, let the wind scatter it._

She tries to smile, and pretend that he isn’t pretending not to see the stiffness in her expression.

The reverend speaks, though she hardly hears what was being said. Alistair’s eyes burns holes through her from his seat in the first row.

_If I still have joy, if I still have joy._

She smiles through her unshed tears and let others think they were out of happiness. Cullen kisses her, sweet, loving, perfect.

Alistair’s stare never leaves her.

Neria could almost hear their three hearts break, slowly, than all at once, shattering like glass as doves take flight above her and Cullen’s heads.

 

* * *

 

_I gave you my passion, gave him my days._

_I gave you my smiles, gave him my patience_

_I gave you my longing, gave him my time._

_I gave you the photographs, gave him the calendar._

_I gave you the colors, gave him the scenery._

_I gave you the distance, gave him the silence._

_I gave you the fireworks, gave him the holiday._

_I gave you the movie ticket, gave him the seat._

_I gave you the candlelight, gave him the meal._

_I gave you the song, gave him the stage._

_Gave you the sound and gave him the picture._

She brings them both dinner from the kitchen, including the cake she made herself. Cullen smiles up at her from his work, almost completely obscured by the piles and piles of paper and books.

She kisses him on the lips, a pleasant warmth spreads through her, small sparks.

Despite the radiance of his smile there are bags under his eyes. She offers to help him with work, an offer he accepts only because he knows it would make her happy.

Their first anniversary they spend in his office, working till the first crack of dawn. Taking a break, he stands, pulling her up and spinning her. He puts one arm around her waist and hold her hand with another, twirling her around the room.

It was the same dance as their first dance as husband and wife. Cullen hums the same song under his breath, looking excited despite the sleepless night.

Alistair had been watching them then too. Even now Neria feels the ghost of his gaze on her back (is it something to savor or to discard? She can't be sure).

_I gave you the plot and gave him the ending._

He couldn’t wait, pinning her to the wall with feverish enthusiasm. Her robes never stood a chance as he takes it off of her (more tore, really, she was going to need him to grab her a change of clothes once all was said and done), kissing, biting, she reciprocates with similar passion.

They move as one, familiar by now with the rhythm they enjoy the most. Bodies meld together, almost flawlessly fitted. Neria could no longer tell which appendage was whose, they were as one. There wasn’t much that’s better than the feeling of becoming joined, like a sacred secret.

_I gave you my heart and gave him my body._

He whispers hoarsely in her ear as he slams into her, and she moans back.

_Rather keep nothing at all, never leave any attachments._

Forget him, her mind says. There is no pretending tonight (at least less than usual, if she could have her way). After all it is moments like this when the differences between Cullen and him (She would never mistaken anyone to be remotely like him, no one else fit so well) are all too painfully clear.

_If I still have misery, let the wind scatter it._

Her nails dig into his back as she holds Cullen tighter, clenching down to hear a breathy moan escape from his clenched teeth as he spills into her.

She moans back, carefully gauging his reaction through slitted eyes (was she getting better at pretending, or was he?).

_If I still have joy, well perhaps…_

 She still doesn't know the answer to that question.


	6. On Dances and Gossip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the talk in the world weighs less than a single glance from her well loved eyes.

“Charmed, my lord.” The young woman smiles in a way that would have passed for seductive had he cared enough to pay attention. He quirks his lips, dipping into a courteous bow. Another lady in a rich green gown hurries forward, hoping to claim his next dance. As leisurely as he could (without letting the woman catch up), he walks the other way as though he had not seen her desperate steps in the corner of his eyes. Alistair moves through the crowd that parts like the tides. Usually such functions were boring, but she was back from her mission. Which meant he could for once dance with the one person that gives life to the spring in his steps.

Funny, he smiles at yet another young noble batting her eyelashes at him, three year ago the women who now dogged his steps would have turned their nose upon the sight of him. Perhaps then he would have been flattered by attention. But that was before her, before the crazed year of death defying battles and breathtaking moments that has long been etched into his heart.

Now all King Alistair Theirin wants to do is get from one corner of the ballroom to the other, where he last caught the glimpse of her stardusted dress as she waltzed to the music with a bann he longs to lock up in Fort Drakon. He greets the Arling of West Hill in a hurry. _Yes, the weather is agreeable._ He answers distractedly, was that her sapphire adorned shoulders he just saw? She had brought many of the sparkling, gem crusted chains from Orlais during a trip. They were such wastefully pretty confections that made her shoulders even more slight then ever. He couldn't figure out whether he liked them better draped on her or scattered across floor of his bedroom.

Simmering heat nurses itself in his abdomen.

“I am quite pleased to hear that the new crop took well to the soil. I take it your people are improving?”  A quick glance above the Arl’s head reveals her lithe figure standing with Teagan.

“Yes, the relief rations were generous, and the people of West Hill are eager to aid in the restoration of Denerim.” He listens though the words barely register and he manages to formulate the correct response quickly even as the rest of his attention focuses (discreetly, he hoped) upon her.

“And I thank their kindness and hope to return it in kind.” The familiar dance of politics is simple now. But Maker, that dress, the black, shimmering fabric makes her stand out among the soft blues and bright reds. Her bejeweled elven ears (the sapphire earrings he had bought for her and her alone) equally set her apart. But nothing shines as bright as her beauty and Alistair wonders why no one is blinded by her.

The sight of her still strikes him like lightening on a  sunny summer day. His lips feel dry and he licks them as he brings his full attention back to Wulff.

“I am afraid you’ll have to excuse me, Arl Wulff. I’m sure my ill-suited tongue as far overstayed its welcome and I simply must see to a promise long overdue in keeping. I do believe Bann Alfstanna will be far better company, she had been looking for you earlier, if I recall correctly.”

“Yes, certainly your majesty.” The man says smoothly, excusing himself in turn. In his eyes remain a mocking knowledge. It’s not his glib words nor Alfstanna’s company that will bring Wulff away from the king, but the open secret that lays on everyone’s tongue.

“Her presence has been, as always, requested.” His ears catches a particularly venomous snide remark and he turns to greet the lady with a smile that startles the woman into silence. It wasn’t his shame, they dared not speak ill of him, nor did he ever care for their disdain. But her reputation was one that he did not like seeing tarnished.

Not that it could be prevented, but still he tries.

His steps are hurried now and he brushes aside the young daughter of Bann Ceorlic. Neria smiles, her blue eyes tell of a wait that has longed for end.

_Knife ear._

_Whore._

_Hero of Ferelden._

_Mistress._

_Love._

_Obstacle._

_Lady._

_His._

All voices quiet and fade as he stares into her well loved eyes. She hold out a hand that he takes to press against his lips. The smile on her rouged lips is as real as the frantic pumping of his heart.

Maker, he missed her dearly.

“My lady.” He murmurs against her hand, not taking his eyes off her darkly lined eyes. There’s a delectable seduction in their private silence. It sings an enchanting melody that bleeds into the understanding that they alone share. It’s a secret no one can penetrate. He wishes to drown in its sweet embrace. But later, tonight...

“Your majesty.” Neria answers with a curtsy as he releases her hand. In her voice an equal ache lurks. Besides them, Bann Teagan clears his throat, amused. The sound hardly registers (he has a hard enough time realizing his uncle was even there). The smile upon his lips expand, growing genuine. Upon her feature it echoes and he resists the urge to reach out and caress her skin.

Instead, he steps close, taking her hand in his as his other arm move to her waist. Her hand automatically find his shoulder, movement as natural as breathing and just as necessary.

“May I have this dance?”

In her smile lays an eternity he longs to taste.

“Always.”


End file.
